Regret
by moreromanthandane
Summary: Before Combeferre dies, he has one last regret he needs to fulfill. EnjolrasxCombeferre.


If one were to visit a particular graveyard in Paris during the years immediately following the student uprising of 1832, one would often see a young man there

If one were to visit a particular graveyard in Paris during the years immediately following the student uprising of 1832, one would often see a young man there. He behaved curiously: he would stand in one, insignificant spot for hours, sometimes speaking aloud, sometimes silent. He would always be clothed in the same garb: a thin, long, brown coat that proved far too hot in the summer and far too cold in the winter, black shoes that may once have been quite presentable but had since fallen into disrepair, and a shabby pair of pants. Every so often he would acquire a new pair of pants, but his coat was always the same. The only other variation in his outfit was that he would wear a tattered scarf and gloves in the winter, both evidently made from the same material as his jacket. This was the only protection he had against the winter cold; however, he scarcely, if ever, showed sign of his chill in the deepest frigidity of the season. The single indication of this was how he would occasionally cup his hands around his mouth and blow warm air into them, in an attempt to warm his fingertips, which his gloves left exposed. He would then return his hands to his pockets, and appear the same as ever. He did not ever bother to change his hair: his long brown locks were consistently pulled into a low ponytail. He was always neat and clean, but other than that seemed to care little about his appearance. His singular accessory was a wire-rimmed pair of glasses, which were always perched atop his slightly long, yet still attractive nose.

However, few stopped to look at this odd being and take notice of his appearance. The ones who did barely recalled him afterwards, and didn't bother to discover who he was. And thus no one came to know of the reason that he would visit the graveyard most days, despite the weather. There was indeed a reason: the man was not a fool, and would never act without adequate support for his actions. He was in fact quite intelligent, and indeed a successful medical student well on his way to becoming an accomplished doctor. Most of the time that he was not visiting the graveyard was spent studying, eating, sleeping, and performing other actions vital to human survival. If one found this much out about the man, they would be quite puzzled as to why he visited the graveyard instead of using the time to advance further in his studies. To unearth the elusive motivator, one would have to delve into his past. Yet even then they could not fully realize his reason. The only place it remained wholly intact was within the young man's sharp mind. And thus whomever was so obsessed with this man as to be completely devoted to the discovery of his reasoning to visit the graveyard would be forced to follow the man himself.

If they were very lucky, they would be watching the man a particular day early in the winter of 1834, an hour or two before noon. On this day, the man entered the graveyard as usual, from the eastern side. He agilely began to make his way through the graveyard, swiftly avoiding the tombstones in his path and seemingly gliding over the snow blanketing the ground. It didn't take him long to reach the area he always visited. This certain spot was unmarked, the ground bare and smooth. When the man had begun to visit the graveyard, this spot had been surrounded by unmarked ground for meters. But the area had been filled with gravestones, out of necessity. The only spot the young man had managed to protect was where he was now standing. Although no one had bothered to prove the theory, it had long been speculated by those involved with the affairs of the graveyard that the man himself had buried a body there, and did not wish it unearthed. His wish was obeyed, not out of respect for him, but the fact that space for one more grave did not make quite a large difference. The young man himself was quite content with this.  
It was snowing quite hard, atypical for the season. It did not appear to be early winter, but rather a day buried deep in the frigid darkness that is known as January. The young man appeared not to notice the unrelenting snow. He stood before the grave, for that is indeed what it was, with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. He was quite still for a while, and, obscured by the snow, appeared to be one of the statues positioned throughout the graveyard. However, after a while, he did something he had never done before: he began to speak to the grave.

"It's almost Christmas, did you realize that?" he commented casually, as if he were talking to a friend sitting with him in a café.

"We only had one Christmas together. I remember it so clearly. You, me, and the rest of us, all together in the Café. Playing card games, drinking…I think I managed to persuade you to have a glass of wine. Which eventually led to more. We were all drunk, even you. You had quite a hangover the next day. It made you even more hotheaded than usual: the headache did nothing for your temper."

At this point, the man paused to laugh. His smile quickly faded, though, as he began to move onto more melancholy topics.

"But if I had known that it would be our first Christmas, our last Christmas…I would have spent it with only you. I would have said to you what I never had the courage to say…"

The young man rubbed his temples in a pained manner, and indeed his face was contorted into an expression of grief and hurt. When he looked up, it was evident that his eyes were full of tears.

"God, Enjolras…why didn't I ever say it? I was scared, I'll admit it. Scared of becoming too devoted and then loosing you. But I was so naïve; I didn't realize that when I'd finally lost you, not telling you what I truly felt would be my one regret. You knew, of course, how could you not? Every time our hands brushed, our lips touched, you knew, and so did I. But the spoken words make if official, complete the devotion of oneself to another…"

The man kneeled down at the grave, and the tears falling profusely from his eyes splattered against the white snow, darkening it to grey.

"I-I love you. And I miss you."

The man stood up, turned, and exited from the graveyard without a backward glance. If whomsoever was watching him deigned to visit the graveyard the next day, the young man would not be there, nor any day afterwards. He had simply, upon telling the one person he truly loved how he felt, disappeared.


End file.
